


Praetereo Mori

by Damn_Son



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst?, Bear - Freeform, Black Hat Is An Ass, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, But I swear there's a good reason for that, Dark Humor, Death, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Get it? Because 5.0.5 is in the fic?, Gore, Hella slow, How Do I Tag, Humor, I'm going to try to make them as gender-neutral as possible, M/M, Morally Grey Reader, Not Really Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader is Sassy, Reader is a bit of an idiot, Sarcasm, Slow Burn, So Bear With me, Swearing, Tags May Change, Temporary Character Death, Unbetaed we fight and die like men, Violence, don't expect regular updates, first fic, heh, idk wtf i'm doing, kill me now, maybe?? - Freeform, poetic bullshit, seriously, updates whenever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21598033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damn_Son/pseuds/Damn_Son
Summary: “Do you know who I am?”Yes, I do.The words shrivel up on the tip of your tongue. You feel your head spinning.You can’t move. You can’t look away.Saying his name, even justthinkingit, immediately makes this whole thing real.You can’t say his name.The words die in your throat before you even manage to choke them out, a primal fear consuming you.But you can’t stop your screaming thoughts from screeching them in a futile warning.Your eyes snap to his.Black Hat.---A chance encounter with Hatsville's #1 retired villain leaves you reeling and barely alive. Unfortunately for you, this isn't the last time you're going to cross his path.
Relationships: 5.0.5 (Villainous) & Reader, Black Hat (Villainous) & Reader, Black Hat (Villainous)/Reader, Demencia (Villainous) & Reader, Dr. Flug (Villainous) & Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 81





	Praetereo Mori

A splash of color.

All good artworks start with a splash of color.

It doesn’t have to be bold, or beautiful, or make sense. But it has to have a purpose. It has to act as a base, a pillar for the rest of the painting.

For this one, you decide to start with a splash of red. It stands out beautifully against the white canvas.

Your breath mists in the air. You wiggle your toes, trying to keep them warm.

You dip your brush in the spot of red. 

Slowly but surely, you start spreading around the vivid color.

It’s a bit difficult to move around with the thick sweater and blankets covering you, but you manage. You can’t afford to turn on the heating, no matter how cold it gets.

You hum a bit as you work, your painting diligently taking shape and coming to life with your vibrant paints and careful brushstrokes.

A spot of yellow here, a dash of black there. Grey storm clouds, fluffy and full like cotton candy burst to life and roil around on the canvas, eating up everything in their way.

But the star, the centerpiece of this painting is red.

Red like fire. Red like blood.

Hm. It seems you’ve painted an apocalypse again.

Oh well.

The watch on your wrist carefully ticks away as you move your hand to and fro on the canvas, adjusting the lighting, touching up on the ruined remains of civilization. You add a few specks of lightning in the storm clouds, like jagged teeth coming out of an open mouth, reading to devour everything.

You put down your brush and admire your work.

You’re actually quite proud of this one. You almost don’t want to sell it.

But alas, paintings and beauty alone don’t pay the bills.

You sigh and glance down at your watch, then tut in annoyance. It seems you have a few hours left to go before daybreak.

That’s the trouble with insomnia. Sleep is a fickle mistress that loves avoiding you. Touching and teasing you with drowsiness before slipping away into the night. And so, you always end up with too much time and not enough to do.

You glance out of the window of your studio. It seems it’s stopped snowing.

The city outside is blank, the snow hugging the buildings and streets like a lover’s embrace. It’s enchanting in its stillness.

A thought.

You glance back at your art supplies. You don’t really feel like painting anymore; you don’t think you could match the piece you did just now. And it’s still too late (too early?) for any store or mall to be open.

And you’re bored.

You hum thoughtfully. You could read a book. Or watch a movie. Or play a video game.

A pause.

You glance back at the window. 

Or…

…

You huff.

Really, there are better options than this. Hatsville isn’t exactly a safe city. Especially at night. Especially so close to the holidays.

Oh, but you’re very, very bored.

And today, you really feel like doing something very, very stupid.

Slowly you stand up, gathering your art supplies along the way and carefully washing them in the kitchen sink.

You don’t change out of your sweater and jeans, they’re very warm and will undoubtedly help with the cold outside. But you do pull on your winter jacket and your snow boots. It snowed quite heavily for a while and you wouldn’t be surprised if the snow was several inches deep.

You pause in front of the entrance and mentally do a once-over of all your necessities.

Phone, check.

Gloves, check.

Beanie, check.

Keys, check.

Taser, check.

Butterfly knife, check.

Pepper spray, check.

Gun, check.

Well.

It seemed you were good to go.

You unlock the door of your apartment and step into the hallway, letting it fall shut behind you. You promptly lock it with a jingle of your keys and a sharp _cla-clack_.__

_ __ _

_ __ _

As you walk away, your footsteps echo throughout the building’s narrow corridors.

\--

Your boots crunch in the fresh snow.

In the alleyway behind you, a trail of fresh footprints and upturned snow leads back to your apartment building.

Your breath mists in the air.

The air is cold, biting. It chills you to your bones and numbs your fingers.

But still. It’s a beautiful night out, with freshly fallen snow and so many streetlights turned off that you can actually _see the stars_ for once.

So, you don’t turn back and instead keep walking towards your favorite public park in Hatsville.

Well. The _only_ public park in Hatsville.

But, _details_.

It’s when you wander through the park’s gates that you realize just how _quiet_ it really is.

You hadn’t expected much of crowd, what with the snow being this deep, but Hatsville is a big city and, more importantly, it’s a _busy_ city. Busy with bustling life and organized crime; always alive with echoing footsteps and beeping cellphones, with alleyway mutterings and silenced gunshots, with cars driving by, new and old, fast and slow. It acts as a sort of white noise, a background music that accompanies you in your daily life.

But this time, you don’t hear – or see – any of that.

No people roaming around, no homeless huddled in the corners, no thugs lying in wait, no screams in the distance, no bodies hidden in the alleyways.

The only sound that envelops you is the wind’s soft sighs.

Carefully, you pull out your pack of cigarettes from one of your pockets. You pull off your gloves and cover the tip of one with your hands, to protect it from the wind. The flame from your lighter illuminates your face as you light it up.

You slip on your gloves again, breathing out a cloud of white smoke and humming thoughtfully.

If the quiet is any indication, there might be a villain attack later on tonight. Or tomorrow morning. Or later this week.

It really depends on the planning and resources the villains have, and need, this time.

Still, when you get back to your apartment you should prepare accordingly. Hide away everything fragile deep in the storerooms, where it won’t risk getting ruined or destroyed; paintings, sculptures… Maybe place the egg and milk cartons somewhere where they won’t break and spill.

You never know if your neighborhood is going to get hit after all.

But you can worry about that later. For now, you simply enjoy the night’s quiet stillness as you slowly, but surely, you make your way deeper into the park, a thin wisp of smoke trailing behind you like mist

You let your cigarette dangle from your lips and stuff your hands in your pockets, relishing in the sound of your solitary footsteps crunching in the snow.

…

…

_Hm. Hold that thought._

Physically, you keep walking at your leisurely pace, occasionally pulling the cigarette from your lips to exhale a burst of white smoke.

But mentally, your mind is active, alive with possible scenarios and courses of action.

Because you’re pretty sure that you just heard a second set of footsteps trailing a few feet behind you.

Now, it could just be some random guy taking a midnight stroll through the park, like you are.

It’s possible.

But very unlikely.

In this case, it’s probably some desperate mugger looking for easy pickings. It could also be some killer or rapist looking for their next victim.

Right now, you’re leaning towards the latter two options.

Because you know for a fact that there are ways to be stealthy even when walking on snow and, judging by how the footsteps came _right the fuck out of nowhere_, this guy knows that too. Which means they _want_ you to panic, to be afraid of them.

And if there’s something you’ve learned from experience, it’s that usually the ones that relish in their victims’ fear are the killers and the rapists.

But in this case, you’re not too worried.

Yeah, you’re being stalked by a bloodthirsty psychopath with no chance of escape or calling for help, but, well, you were _kind of_ expecting that; it’s the whole reason why you brought your whole arsenal with you.

If push comes to shove – and it inevitably _will_, judging by how the footsteps sound closer now – you can probably fight this guy off and get away quick enough.

Otherwise… oh well.

_C’est la vie._

You look up at the stars, hands in your jacket’s pockets, fingering your Taser and your butterfly knife. Chances are, you can get a good hit in and then pull out your gun to finish him off.

Not the most _elegant_ of methods, but you do what you have to do.

Gradually, the footsteps fall into step beside you, just next to your right shoulder. You ignore them, unconcerned.

“It’s a nice night out, isn’t it?”

The first thought that crosses your mind is: _Oof_. That voice, though.

Poor bastard sounds like he smoked ten packs of cigarettes a day from the moment he was born. And you should know, seeing as how you’re a chain-smoker yourself.

Jesus.

The thought after that is: He’s a conversationalist. He enjoys seeing his victims’ fear face-to-face.

Which is good for you, because it might give you a few openings in the long run.

Still, the man asked a question, and ignoring him in favor of cringing at his voice (and plotting how to kill him in self-defense) would be rude, so you answer.

“Yep. ‘S been a while since we’ve had such a peaceful night in Hatsville.”

He hums in agreement, and it sounds like he’s trying to choke out the mucus from an acute bronchitis.

_Oy vey._

“Still,” he rasps. “I can’t help but wonder what you might be doing out in the streets so late at night. From what I hear, this isn’t exactly a _safe_ city. Not many heroes here.”

You shrug. “I could ask you the same thing, really,” you grip your Taser a bit more tightly and add: “I suppose we’re both fools who are just waiting to be attacked.”

A pause.

The man to your right barks out a rough chuckle.

“Oh, I sincerely doubt anyone in their right mind would dare attack _me_.”

That makes you frown.

When it comes to criminals, confidence is a fickle thing.

Sometimes, it’s all bark and no bite, just hot air to scare the competition off.

But sometimes it’s completely justified; a warning to be careful, directed at allies and enemies and whoever else might be listening.

And this time, because of the way he says it, it gives you pause.

It’s not a warning, not by a long shot. It’s more like a certitude, an inevitability; nobody would ever attack him, because everyone knows who he is and everyone fears him. Like _you_ should know who he is, and fear him.

And you don’t like the implications of that. Not one bit.

It puts you on edge.

You’re suddenly very aware of how _close_ Mr. Sandpaper Voice is to you. Your shoulders almost brush together.

The cold air around you suddenly feels frozen solid, ice in your lungs and on your skin.

You snap your head to the right, body tensed, intent on confronting your stalker-

-And suddenly, just like that, you come face to face with the Devil himself.

Your mouth goes dry.

Your cigarette falls in the snow at your feet, its small ember dying. 

You’ve seen pictures of him. Vague warnings that flashed on television while you sculpted or painted. Newsflashes, reports, articles.

But God, there’s a very distinct difference between seeing a monster in a picture and coming face-to-face with him.

His green, razor-sharp fangs seem to glow in the surrounding darkness, accentuating his impossibly wide sneer, and the monocle on his left eye ominously reflects the light of a nearby lamp post back at you.

He’s close, so _close_. So close that you can make out the pattern of small slimy scales on his face. In his right eye, you can see your reflection stare back at you; frozen, shocked, scared.

You abruptly feel very, very _small_.

He leans in closer, smile so wide it should have lopped his head clean off. You feel his breath tickle the bridge of your nose.

You can’t look away from his radioactive green knife teeth. Saliva oozes at the edge of his mouth.

“Do you know who I am?”

_Yes, I do._

The words shrivel up on the tip of your tongue. You feel your head spinning.

You can’t move. You can’t look away.

Saying his name, even just _thinking_ it, immediately makes this whole thing real.

You can’t say his name.

The words die in your throat before you even manage to choke them out, a primal fear consuming you.

But you can’t stop your screaming thoughts from screeching them in a futile warning.

Your eyes snap to his.

_Black Hat._

Black Hat, in all of his villainous glory, stands before you.

In Hatsville, Black Hat is a myth, a legend, a Bogeyman used to scare off curious onlookers and warn aspiring heroes. He isn’t supposed to be an active threat. He isn’t supposed to be wandering the streets like this.

_You’re supposed to be retired_, you want to croak at him. But you still can’t seem to make your vocal chords work.

You gulp, frozen in shock and fear.

Then, you have a thought.

_I’m going to die here._

_Black Hat is going to kill me._

It’s a simple thought, really, and incredibly obvious.

But still, primal instincts take over and it makes your stomach churn. You can feel nausea rising up and slowly tightening your throat like a noose around your neck.

You still can’t look away.

His smile seems to widen in response to your thoughts.

You take a step back. He steps forward, following you.

The shadows around you seem to roil and dance with each breath you take. Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears, deafening. And when Black Hat suddenly emits a low, pleased hum, you realize that he can hear it too.

In the midst of all the terror clouding your mind, you feel a sort of breathless awe take a hold of you as you stand there, overwhelmed by his presence.

It feels like watching a natural disaster unfold before your eyes. Like seeing a tsunami heading towards you, engulfing everything in its path, or witnessing a volcano erupt and slowly choke the life out of everything with liquid fire and roiling smoke; beautiful and terrifying in its raw power and sheer _inevitability_.

You’re not sure how long you stay like this, simply observing each other. Watching each other’s moves and anticipating any movement the other might make.

It might have been a second, or a minute, or an hour. It felt like time was going too fast and too slow at the same time. You couldn’t focus on any one detail of his face, and yet you were still painfully aware of your breathing, your heartbeat, the blood pumping through your veins, the sweat beading at your temple.

The noose was tightening around your neck, and it made you want to cry out in despair. You haven’t felt fear like this in a long, long time.

You’re trapped.

In that soul-crushing moment, it seemed like the night itself was holding its breath, waiting for one of you to move, to react.

And you’re the one who shatters the peace by making the first move.

In an act of supreme _stupidity_ that you’re going to remember for days to come, you whip out your Taser, faster than ever before, and slam it into one of his eyes, knocking off his monocle, before pressing the ‘on’ button.

The Taser emits a sharp _tak-tak-tak_ as electricity pours out of it and sinks into the eldritch’s skin, blue sparks lighting up the night.

Black Hat _screams_, his voice echoing off into the empty winter night. His body convulses as folds on himself and presses a hand to his injured eye, growling.

You promptly drop the Taser and bolt, heading for the tree-line in the hopes of losing him. Unfortunately, the deep snow slows you down and makes you stumble, severely impeding your speed.

Behind you, you hear some sort of shredding sound.

Before you even reach the first tree, something grabs your ankle and sharply pulls you toward it. You fall, and your heads drops into the snow as you are slowly dragged back towards Black Hat. You sputter, trying to get the snow off your face, and when your eyes focus again, you barely have time to register the black claw wearing a tattered glove shooting towards you.

You don’t have time to dodge.

Black Hat slashes you open. Your scream echoes into the night.

\--

Red.

A splash of red stains the pristine white snow.

Eye-catching. Just like red paint on a white canvas.

It drips and swirls, creating mesmerizing patterns without the help of a brush, almost as if it had a mind of its own.

_Beautiful._

In your pain-filled haze, it’s one of the few things you can register coherently.

The stars shine bright above you.

_Crunch. Snap._

You feel your innards slither out of your stomach.

_Riip. Sluurp._

Your limbs, torn apart slowly and meticulously.

_Growl. Crunch._

Your muscles and fat, ripped away from your bones by sharp teeth.

You can’t move. You can barely breathe.

All you can do is stare up at the stars with tears in your eyes.

You don’t have the luxury of fainting; the excruciating pain keeps you awake. Your eyes, blurry and unfocused, smudge the world around you, allowing you only to see vague shapes and splashes of color.

A black shape, roiling, slithering, eating you up with impossible movements.

A flash of green, quick as lightning; jagged teeth from an open mouth, sinking into your flesh.

And red. Red everywhere.

In your daze, you vaguely realize that the sounds of eating have stopped.

After that, everything is a blur.

Suddenly, the black shape isn’t as big anymore. And there’s a brown and blue shape with it.

Voices. Talking.

“…_still alive_…”

“…_questioning **me**_-!”

Hands, over your clothes, under your clothes, searching.

The sound of a car speeding away, impossibly loud in this quiet night.

Pain. So much pain.

You feel drowsy.

You let your eyes flutter close, hoping you might finally be able to sleep.

Ah, but Sleep has always been a fickle mistress.

And Death, for you, was always much of the same.

You can feel her right now, warm, inviting, teasing you with unconsciousness. Gently leading you into her comforting embrace.

But then, as your body knits itself back together, and as the pain starts to recede, you can feel her drawing back.

Unbidden, you sense her slip away into the night.

And, slowly, your eyes open up again.

The first thing that hits you is how cold everything feels.

Which makes sense, seeing as how you’re lying half-naked with your back pressed in the snow.

Your whole body feels sore and your lungs ache because of the cold air. Ice pricks at your skin, a thousand tiny needles urging you to stand up, to _move_.

You exhale a ragged, stuttering breath, and watch it cloud the air in front of you.

The stars still shine bright above you.

Slowly, you roll on your stomach, ignoring the cold, and try to push yourself off the frigid snow. Everything hurts; your joints creak, your throat is raw and you can feel your muscles twitching from being newly regenerated.

Suddenly, your throat seizes up and you vomit, staining the pristine white snow.

For a while, you simply stay crouched there, heaving, then choking and gasping for air.

Eventually you carefully sit back, wiping the spit and bile from your mouth with one of your tattered sleeves.

You slowly press your palms against the snow and shakily try to stand up, pushing yourself off the ground. You feel pins and needles in your legs, your feet. You’re shaking so bad you can barely hold still.

God, a cigarette.

You- you need a cigarette.

You hastily pat your pockets, looking for your pack of smokes and your lighter. You can’t find them. You can’t find them, and you won’t stop _shaking, God_.

You swallow.

Okay, _okay_.

_Breathe._

You take a few deep breaths, trying to focus your mind and reign in the panic that threatens to take over.

You try again, this time being more meticulous. You find them and slowly pull them out, immediately putting a cigarette in your mouth.

You can barely align the lighter’s flame with the tip of the cigarette. You have to try several times, but eventually you get it. You take a deep breath, inhaling as much nicotine as possible.

For a while, you just stand there, smoking your cigarette.

Slowly but surely you start to relax. Your breathing evens out and you manage to ease your shaking.

You can still feel your heart pounding, though.

Okay. _Okay_.

You take the time to look yourself over.

Your jacket is still intact, luckily, but your sweater is done for; all that’s left of it is a shredded mess that barely hangs together. Your pants, too, are ripped and torn, but with a few modifications they could easily pass off as shorts. You don’t necessarily have to throw them away.

You just have to- you just have to wash off all the blood from them and it’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.

You take another deep breath and cover your face with your hands.

Okay. Go home, take a shower, put on your pajamas and eat a whole tub of cookie dough while lazing around on the couch. And maybe, _maybe_, take the time to have a minor panic attack over the fact that you were just _eaten alive by Black Hat_.

God.

God_dammit_.

You lower your hands, zip up your jacket, and slowly start stumbling your way back to your apartment.

…

At least now you know why tonight was so quiet. 

_Fuck._

\--

Reaching the apartment, you can safely say that you’re starting to feel a bit better.

You haven’t completely calmed down yet, and it takes you a few tries to actually get your keys in the lock and open your door, but you’re getting there.

You don’t realize just how tense you are until you finally lock the door behind you and almost collapse because of the wave of relief that hits you.

Seeing your small flat, cluttered with sculptures, paintings, drawings and various art supplies has never made you feel safer.

You know, logically, that if someone wanted to follow you and break into your apartment to attack you or steal your stuff, there is _no way_ that your flimsy door would stop them. Especially not if that someone was Black Hat.

But still, you don’t care. Right now you feel safe, and that’s all that really matters.

Slowly, you start to peel off your ruined sweater and throw it on the floor. You’ll deal with it later.

You pat your pockets and walk towards your small coffee table, doing a mental list of what you have and what you’ve lost.

Gloves, check. You peel them off and carelessly drop them to the ground.

Beanie… Nope.

Keys, check. You slip them out and throw them on the table, where they land with a loud _clang!_

Pepper spray, check. You take it out and put it on the table too.

Butterfly knife, check. On the table it goes.

Gun, check. You double-check that the safety is still on before you put it back in the inside pocket of your jacket, like always.

Taser, nope. Obviously.

Phone……

Phone…

You pause, frown, and check again. What the hell?

Did you really just lose your phone? Were you really that unlucky?

Then it comes back to you.

_Hands, over your clothes, under your clothes, searching._

__

__

_The sound of a car speeding away, impossibly loud in this quiet night._

_…_

Oh my God.

That bitch stole your phone.

Wow, talk about adding insult to injury (_literally!_). What a supreme asshole.

Your run a hand over your face, sighing wearily. Whatever. This has been a shit night anyway. You’re just going to add this to the mental list of ‘things to deal with later’ and move on. Nothing you can really do about it otherwise.

After removing your jacket and throwing it on the coffee table with the rest of your stuff, you quietly start shuffling into your room, with the intent to change into your pajamas and snuggle deep within your covers until you feel better. Or until your alarm goes off. Whichever comes first.

Honestly, the shower and tub of cookie dough can wait until later. Right now you really need to process for a bit.

The apartment is dark, but you can’t be bothered to turn on the lights at this point. Somehow, you manage to step around all the clutter littering your apartment and avoid bumping into any of your unfinished projects in a set of moves that would make any contortionist proud.

You manage to slip into your room without any casualties (thank god you never store any of your projects in here) and then promptly collapse face-first on your bed.

Oh look. Your perfect fool-proof feel better plan went from ‘getting changed and going to bed’ to just ‘going to bed’. Eh, you’ll mourn the loss of the previous step later. For now you just want to snuggle in your bedsheets and _rest_.

Not sleep. Because obviously sleep is a bitch that will never grant you the joys of unconsciousness when you most need them. But just…rest. Relax. Unwind for a bit.

You haphazardly grab your bedsheets and roll them around you, doing your best to try and imitate a giant human burrito going into hibernation.

_Ring!_

Or that _would’ve been_ the plan, had a client not decided to call you at the ass-crack of dawn for whatever reason.

You don’t even bother rolling out of your burrito blanket, just reaching a hand out and slapping it repeatedly on your bedside table to look for your phone. After an intense and harrowing search that leads to the ultimate demise of your water bottle, your notebook and your old alarm clock, you finally manage to grab the infernal device (which at this point has stopped ringing) and slip it into your burrito blanket to-

This isn’t your work phone.

You freeze, surprised and confused and suddenly very, _very_ alert.

You rise up into a sitting position, ignoring the way your muscles scream at you just for that simple act and just… stare at the phone in your hands. Your _personal_ phone.

You frown.

_What?_

But… You thought…

Didn’t Black Hat…?

…

And then it clicks.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh _fuck_.

Faster than you thought possible, you shoot out of bed, briefly getting tangled in your blanket and slamming to the floor before breaking free and sprinting out of your room. You don’t bother to avoid all of your projects, bumping into them and sending some of them crashing to the ground.

When you reach your coffee table, you immediately scramble for your jacket, looking through your pockets, then going to your pants, then through the drawers, the closet, going back to your room, checking under the bed, panicked, frantic, because oh fuck, there is no way, you are such a fucking idiot you brought your _work phone_ with you and Black Hat just _stole_ it and you’re in such deep shit fuck _fuck FUCK!_

You run a hand through your hair, feeling one part _absolutely done_ and three parts panicked. Because in that phone are all of your contacts of Hatsville’s criminal underworld and if Black Hat tries to take advantage of them – which he undoubtedly _will_, that motherfucker – it won’t be long before the source of the leak is traced back to _you_.

And then it’s only a matter of time before they find you –because good luck getting _out_ of Hatsville without any of them knowing when they control literally _everything_ – and once _that_ happens, it’s only a matter of time before they find out you’re an immortal with infinite regeneration.

And _that_ is not something you want _anyone_ to find out. _Ever_.

You take a deep breath and try to start thinking of your options.

Your work phone is triple encrypted; a safety precaution which you installed when you first started out and that now makes you want to worship your past self’s foresight.

That should definitely buy you some time, though you don’t doubt that someone like _Black Hat_ has the means to access it sooner or later.

Still, in a race against the clock, every spare minute counts.

You walk over to your worn out sofa and heavily fall down into it, your head in your hands.

What are your options here?

Running away is out. They’ll know as soon as you try and it might bring unwanted attention to you if you try to do it before they realize what happened.

Cops are out. Half of them are corrupt and would sell you out to the mob for a Snickers bar and the other half would arrest you because of all the shit you’ve pulled throughout the years.

Protective custody maybe? …No. Even if the corrupt officers don’t hand you over to the villains, said villains will still certainly manage to bust in and either kidnap you or kick your ass.

…You could try going to them and explaining what happened. Which is still a terrible idea, but slightly less terrible than the other options. There’s two outcomes to this plan; either they don’t believe you and assume you’re lying to cover your snitching, which means _Game Over_ for you. Or they _do_ believe you and start thinking of you as a liability and too incompetent to be trustworthy, which can lead to them cutting all ties with you and taking back all the money they paid you with as compensation (which is the ideal outcome), or they can decide to take a more _radical_ approach and kill you as payback for your incompetence, which would be _bad_, but for a different set of reasons than one might think.

Actually, the more you think about it, the worst that option sounds.

For a second you wonder what your chances of success might be if you just throw yourself into the sea and try to swim over to another city. Considering your immortality, you’d say your odds are better than literally every other option you can choose from.

God, you’re so _fucked_ if that’s really your best solution you can come up with.

You reach for your jacket and take out your now damp pack of cigarettes and your lighter.

You put a cigarette between your lips and promptly light it, uncaring about whether the smoke ruins your paintings or not.

Heh. And to think you were planning on slowing down when it came to smoking to save up a bit.

Whatever. Not that it’s going to matter soon anyway.

…

…There’s a sixth option. It’s one that manages surpasses all of the others combined in sheer recklessness and stupidity, but it’s also the one that has the highest chance of success in this case.

You could go, personally confront Black Hat and bargain with him, asking him to give you your phone back.

…

Oh God, just _thinking_ about it makes you want to facepalm.

It’s so _stupid_. Hands down the single _worst_ idea you’ve had in all the centuries you spent alive. And you’ve had some pretty bad ideas in the past.

(Like taking a midnight stroll through Hatsville and ignoring literally _all_ of the warning signs that screamed at you to get the fuck out of there and head home.)

Scratch that, actually. Make that the _seventh_ option.

The sixth option would be trying to sneak into Black Hat’s hideout and try to steal back your phone from him, and it makes a burst of giddy hysteria bubble up in your throat as you think of how well _that_ might actually go down.

God, you can just imagine it happening. You’d show up at his… his… _retirement lair_, or whatever, and then promptly get blown to smithereens by his security system, or get your ass kicked by his mooks or something.

Of course, that was if he _didn’t_ remember you from when you tased his eye out a few hours ago. If he did, then being killed by his security system would be the least of your problems.

For a split second, you can’t help but wonder what it was exactly that Black Hat did with the corpses of those killed by his security system. Would he just leave them out there to rot? Would there even be anything left to rot once it was all said and done? Would he ask one of his goons to go outside and dispose of the body?

…Would he ask one of his goons to bring the body _inside_ to use as a test subject?

You pause, considering, only to immediately be horrified at what you were thinking.

No.

No, no, _no_.

Bad.

Bad brain. That was an _awful_ thought process.

Why would you even _consider_ it? It wasn’t even a certainty; at best, the chances of that happening were one-in-four.

…

Then again… maybe if you used your death as a _distraction_ instead, and then snuck your way in once the defenses were lowered and the residents least expected it…

After all, one of the perks of being immortal was that death was never really the end for you.

…

Oh man, you really _were_ considering this, weren’t you?

God, you were such an idiot.

You took another drag of your cigarette, suddenly feeling like a rebellious teenager again.

Apparently you weren’t the only thing that got killed each time you died; your brain cells also seemed to suffer some damage. Except unlike you, your brain cells never really revived afterwards.

That was honestly the only explanation possible for what you were currently considering.

…

You were about to break into the #1 retired villain’s lair to steal back your phone.

  
  
  
  
  


…God you hated yourself sometimes.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! Thank you for reading my fic!  
I've been working on this idea for a while, and it's nice to finally be able to post it.  
I wanted to warn you guys though that since this is my first fic, I might go back and edit this chapter if I find any inconsistencies I don't like down the road; I'm mostly winging it and don't really have a plot in mind other than the basic premise, so don't expect too much in that department.  
I also wanted to warn you not to expect regular updates. At all. Not only do I have other WIPs I'm working on in my spare time (lots and lots of WIPs), but I also have college to worry about.  
And I'm also kind of shit at keeping an actual update schedule.  
So don't expect updates to be a regular occurrence, because they won't be. Sometimes a few months, or even a year, might pass before I update again.  
This is okay. This is _normal_. So don't expect me to update every other day because I probably won't.  
Still, with all of that out of the way, I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! I'm really excited to write more!  
And since this is my first fic, I would really appreciate it if you could point out any mistakes I made throughout the chapter.  
Peace out!


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